


Real

by springsdandelion (writergirlie)



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-17
Updated: 2012-03-17
Packaged: 2017-11-02 01:54:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/363714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writergirlie/pseuds/springsdandelion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Katniss finally agrees to something Peeta's wanted for a long time</p>
            </blockquote>





	Real

I watch him knead, muscles flexing underneath the tautness of his skin as he works into the dough. You don’t expect such finesse, such gentleness from someone his size, as though he senses the fragile nature of the dough and he’s careful not to bruise it.

 

He’s that way with me, I realize. The way his fingers brush against my skin in the first hints of a touch; the light pressure of his lips before a kiss. And when I grant him permission—when I open myself up to him, as I always do—it’s only then that he lets the emotions spill out.

 

Only then that he holds nothing back.

 

I realize, it’s always been like that. How he’s always looked to me to give him permission. To signal my reciprocation that he’d never once demanded.

 

And suddenly, I feel the words rise up in my chest and tumble out of my mouth.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

He doesn’t hear me at first. Still turning the dough, sprinkling flour over the board and locking his elbows as he presses into the flesh of the dough.

 

“What’s that?”

 

“I said I’m sorry.”

 

He turns to me, brows furrowed in confusion. He waits for my explanation, and when I don’t give it, he says, “For what?”

 

I take a breath and let it out in a gush, as though with it, I’m exhaling my long pent-up regret. For everything.

 

“For taking you for granted,” I say. “For… _taking_. For not always giving unless it was convenient for me. Or… when I just couldn’t fight it anymore.”

 

He leans back against the counter, bracing it, leaving white handprints on the marble. Then he slowly pushes himself off and crosses the distance between us, hands and forearms still dusted with flour. He pulls out the chair next to mine and turns it towards him before sinking down to straddle it.

 

I watch him, trying to watch for the comprehension in his eyes, a sign that he might actually understand what I’m trying to say. Or where this is all coming from.

 

“I’m sorry for not always knowing,” I say. There’s deep shame in my voice. Remorse for having strung him along at times, for leaving him to wonder whether he would ever come first in my life. At not being good enough at showing him how much I needed him to help me be capable of believing in _something_. “That I... didn't know for a long time. Not the way you always knew.”

 

“Did I?” he asks.

 

I can’t help but be stung by his question, though I shouldn’t have been surprised by it. If they hadn’t tortured him… if they hadn’t tried to destroy him in order to destroy me, he would have never asked this.

 

_Real or not real?_

 

“Maybe not always when it came to us,” I finally say. I have to admit that much. “But, when it came to me…”

 

Was it ego that was making me say this? The faith that he always loved me deep down, no matter what they did to the synapses of his brain? The drugs they pumped into his system?

 

“… I always knew.”

 

He nods as he says this, his voice wistful and soft, like he’s remembering the early days, what fragmented memories have slowly returned to him over time.

 

Spotting me in the crowd when we were five. Hearing me sing that first time. Tossing me the bread in the rain. Kissing me in the cave, as he was trying to keep me from slipping into unconsciousness.

 

_Real or not real?_

 

He reaches for my hand, stopping short of just touching my fingers. He nudges him gently, asking for permission as always. It’s habit now. I grant it eagerly, threading my fingers through his, reminding him that the time for doubting is long over, that he has no reason to ever wonder with me anymore. He hasn’t had to in a long time.

 

“I’m sorry it was so hard for you sometimes,” I say.

 

“Wasn’t easy for you either.”

 

Just like Peeta to make me feel better.

 

“Well, that’s an understatement.” I smile and he smiles back, and a warmth floods through my bloodstream at once. “I got there too, eventually. I’m just… I’m just sorry it took me so long.”

 

“Better late than never,” he says, chuckling softly. He gets up, the chair scraping the floor, and he leans over to kiss me on the forehead. I’m still holding on to his hand, and when he starts to turn back to his abandoned dough, I give his hand a tug.

 

He meets my eyes, and suddenly, I feel naked. Vulnerable. It seems he’s always making me feel this way.

 

“Ok.”

 

He looks back at me, confused, and slowly, I smile. I think, somewhere deep inside him, he knows what I mean. What he’s been waiting for me to agree to for so long now.

 

“Ok?”

 

The comprehension is beginning to dawn in his eyes. I nod, confirming what I’m pretty sure he’s already figured out.

 

“Ok, let’s have a baby.”

 

I see the breath catch in his throat. His eyes turn glossy with tears, and there’s a question that begins to form in them.

 

_You want this too, don’t you? You’re not doing this just for me?_

 

_Yes, Peeta. Yes, I want this too._

 

“Just promise me…”

 

I want to say, _just promise me our children will grow up in a world that won’t know violence. That senseless deaths won’t await them. That they’ll be safe and loved with us. Always._

 

“… promise me you won’t leave all of the late night feedings to me.”

 

His eyes crinkle into a smile, and I see the sparkle of tears in the corners of his eyes.

 

“Promise me you’ll be the one to sing lullabies,” he says. After a beat, he adds, “To all of us.”

 

_Real or not real?_

_Real._


End file.
